


Sherlock's Moving Castle

by b00mgh



Series: Twelve Days of Ficmas 2019 [3]
Category: Howl no Ugoku Shiro | Howl's Moving Castle, Miss Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Ficmas, Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, F/F, Fluff and Angst, LOOK FORWARD TO, Sherlock is Howl, Sherlock is a Useless Lesbian, Tags Are Fun, Wato is Sophie, Wato is a Useless Lesbian, i am a useless lesbian, pretty much everyone else is the same as the movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:55:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b00mgh/pseuds/b00mgh
Summary: Following a bombing near her home in the city, Wato's life hardly changes, until a chance encounter in the streets with the famed wizard, Sherlock, who proceeds to save her from creepy men, and then forgets she exists when she shows up, cursed, at her house less than a day later.Cue useless lesbians trying not to collapse from *~*pritty gorl*~*, Markl doing his best to support this goddamn family, and Calcifer attempting to drag these women together (since they won't, you know, *talk* about their feelings) because he's pretty sure love is a universal curse-breaker- if the harlequin books and YA novels that Sherlock feeds him when she's done reading them are to be believed.
Relationships: Sherlock | Futaba Sara Shelly/Tachibana Wato
Series: Twelve Days of Ficmas 2019 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570897
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Sherlock's Moving Castle

“You’re sure you don’t want to come with us, Wato?” her mother coaxed sympathetically. 

Wato shook her head, “I’m alright, Mother, I’d just slow you all down.” She spoke quickly before her mother could interrupt her with insistences, lies, that Wato would do nothing of the kind, “You all go, have fun. I’ll watch the shop. Maybe I’ll visit my sister, later.”

Her mother sighed, probably tired of Wato’s negativity, and beckoned the other girls in the hat shop to go watch the parade. They left in a storm of giggles and Wato tried in vain to work on a few more hats before giving up in a fit of complacent frustration. To Sakura’s it is then.

Her sister worked and boarded in a bakeshop across town. She was cheerful and lively and personable and pretty and  _ not _ irreparably damaged by debris sent flying by a bomb too close to the city during a trip for groceries. Sakura took after their mother, who was much the same, although more frivolous and much more interested in men. Wato ran the hat shop in every sense except the legal, and she suspected that if she asked, or if her mother got married again, the shop would be hers– and the other girls, who only worked there out of love for Wato’s mother, would leave– and it would just be Wato, lonely, plain, damaged Wato wearing whichever of her hats didn’t sell well. 

Wato hated the parade, it was one of the reasons she passed on going with the others. Everything from the loud noises and fanfare to what, exactly, they were celebrating to the slimy men thinking they could smile and brag their way into the pants of any girl. The war nearly killed her, so forgiveness must be given if she wasn’t keen on celebrating it. 

In the back alleyways below street level of the city, hidden by tall storefronts and factories from the screaming of the parade, Wato walked quickly and with purpose. Nobody stops a girl walking like that, she knows. It’s harder to walk like that with her injury though, still barely three weeks old and stretching out of its seems with every decisive step. 

Two men, a full head taller than Wato with carefully groomed features and plaster smiles, must have noticed this weakness because they step right in front of her before she has a chance to pass them.

“Look,” one croons with a smirk, “a little mouse lost its way.”

“I’m not lost,” Wato asserts, but she’s never been good at asserting. Her voice just isn’t made for it, she supposes.

Punching his friend lightly on the arm, the other man rolls his eyes. “Now she’s scared,” he sighs, “you’re mustache scares all the girls.”

“That’s alright, I think she’s cuter when she’s scared,” the first man purrs. 

“Leave me alone,” Wato coughs out, even though she wants to vomit. 

For a paralyzing second Wato is acutely aware of how vulnerable she is. She could never fight off two soldiers. And they’ve made their stance  _ clear _ about Wato’s opinion.

But the moment passes and a warm arm connected to a cold hand wraps around her shoulders in a gesture of safety, of solidarity. “There you are, darling, I thought I’d lost you.”

Wato peers up at her rescuer– and she does have to peer  _ up _ , because this woman is almost as tall as the soldiers and she’s wearing heels on top of it. She’s gorgeous. Her hair is cropped short, like a boy, but the style had never looked more feminine. Wato does everything in her power not to stare like she’s never seen a beautiful woman before, or drool, or fall over. 

“Hey, what’s the big idea–?” but neither man gets to finish that thought because with a finger to their faces and a “weren’t you  _ leaving _ ?” Wato’s stunning rescuer has sent the men stalking stiffly away. A wizard. Wato physically cannot bring herself to be frightened, though she knows she should be. The wizard’s arm has not left her shoulders, cold fingers have moved to carefully cup her elbow in support.

“Where to?” she drawls. She’s grinning, and Wato reminds herself not to stare again, settling her gaze on her shoes instead.

“Sakura’s Bakeshop, off Highland Street.”

Barely even nodding, the wizard leads the way through a few alleyways before her pace changes slightly, heels clicking more stiltedly on the cobbles. 

“Don’t look now,” she whispers, “but we’re being followed.”

Wato nearly panics: followed? By whom? Those soldiers from before? Is she safe with this wizard? She should really be having more doubts about trusting a wizard, she knows, but there’s a bigger problem when the most well-trained military men in the country are more threatening than the well-known wizard  _ Sherlock _ . She knows the stories: Sherlock is a rogue wizard fleeing the King’s service following disreputable conflict with the court wizard, and she’ll eat the heart of beautiful girls to grow her power. Wato also knows she has nothing to worry about: she’s not a beautiful girl, and nobody could gain any power from her even if they ate her down to her hair. 

When Wato looks, however, she realizes they are not being followed by soldiers, but, of course, by a giant, pitch-black, amorphous blob that is stretching, dripping out to reach them. Sherlock leads them, suddenly fast as a gale of wind and floating several inches off the ground, through a labyrinthian path, using more alleyways than Wato even knew the whole city contained, before finally reaching a dead-end. However, Wato has no time to panic before Sherlock has gripped her hands tightly in her own, ice-cold and firm, and hoisted her into the air, above the parade, above the buildings, above the noise and pandemonium, and (probably most importantly), above those blobmen. 

“Now,” Sherlock murmurs into Wato’s ear, her voice soft and enticing Wato to open her clenched eyes, “stretch out your legs, and  _ walk _ ,” and Wato did. Just put her legs down, held her arms out where they connected to Sherlock’s at the fingertips, and walked like she was on the ground. A laugh built in her throat and tumbled from her lips, easy as breathing– she hadn’t laughed so easily in three weeks. People were like blades of grass in a windy field, always moving but not very much as would displace the image of the plains. The banners looked like spots of flowers, and the marching parade with its floats and endless soldiers in their dress uniforms were a trickling stream. It was amazing, Sherlock was amazing, and in the lighter air above the shadows of the buildings of the city, Wato felt unburdened, uninjured, undamaged. 

All too quickly, Sherlock was lowering her onto the balcony of “Sakura’s Bakeshop,” muttering about drawing them off, and floating away. Like a cloud. Like a dream. Like a beautiful, wonderful dream. Wato lingered on the balcony for several minutes, staring off to where Sherlock had disappeared. 

**Author's Note:**

> On the third day of Ficmas the author gave to me: three useless lesbians, two dumbass heroes, and a start to a Supernatural thing!


End file.
